


Deprivation

by spacefucker



Series: 30 Day Challenge (Marvel) [2]
Category: Marvel
Genre: M/M, Poor Clint, graphic depictions of sensory deprivation, i made myself sad and upset, rating for possible triggers, worried steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 10:44:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8053297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacefucker/pseuds/spacefucker
Summary: Clint is knocked out and taken. He can't see. He can't hear. There's nothing.





	Deprivation

They haven’t done anything with him since he was brought here.

Mission gone wrong ending with a dislocated knee, bag over the head, and the butt of a rifle meeting the back of his skull. Before darkness had met him he heard Steve screaming in his ear, calling his name. And then he was floating. Being knocked out and being asleep are two different feelings.

It’s not good to be knocked out. Other than the obvious initial brain trauma there’s the time. You don’t want to be out too long. The longer you’re out the more extensive the damage. So when Clint wakes up, eyes fluttering, and sees nothing but darkness he experiences the sharp and intense fear of going blind. He’s so afraid they’ve taken another of his senses and he spends what seems like forever straining to see anything.

It’s not just that, either. It’s quiet. And not the same quiet that having his aids out creates. It’s the kind of quiet that almost rings. Where you can’t help but think there’s something there just beyond your ability to hear. He can’t help but make sounds himself. Clicking his tongue over and over in tandem with the tapping of his foot. Anything to create noise and vibration.

He doesn’t know how they manage it but food and water appear while he's asleep. Waking up and having to rely on his sense of smell to determine what’s what. Water, bottled, doesn’t last long when it’s all he has to wash down plain oatmeal. His sense of taste seems to just disappear. Every move becomes mechanical and strictly necessary.

There’s no way of telling how long he’s been in here for. He knows for a fact that he sleeps four hours at a time but every time he wakes up and there’s food he can’t help but think he’s going down longer than normal. No one talks to him. There’s no way to tell if there’s a change in guard and there’s no window to mark time of day. The food stays the same so there’s no indicator based on that either.

He knows, or hopes, that Steve is coming for him.

Because he knows he’s losing it. He can only fill stretches of silence for so long before he decides sleep is best. He can only sing the same songs over and over before they start to be grating.

Click. Click. Click.

The clicking of his tongue starts to match his heartbeat and he stops, holds his breath, and counts instead. Clint spends he doesn’t know how long just counting. He does the math in his head, figures how many seconds he needs per hour, and just counts. He’s a spy and a marksman. If there is anyone who can sit still for hours and wait it should be Clint. But what he’d never considered is how lucky he was to have an environment.

Literally anything to see, hear, smell, etc. Anything to stimulate his mind while he waited on a target.

Here, though? Here there is nothing.

The first sign of light is when the door opens. He’s awake and his first thought is that they’ve finally come in to kill him. It’s been so long that he can’t imagine what happened but it can’t possibly be good. So he scrambles into the corner and sits with his knees pulled up to his chest, head buried there to block out the light. He’s turning from something he’d wanted so badly to see.

Voices are muffled and there’s a scuffle. He’s not grabbed. The first thing he feels is a firm, calloused hand rub his shoulder and another put a pair of hearing aids in his hands.

Clint shakes when he unfolds himself from his position in the corner. Each new feeling is a new horror. Everything is too much. He’s blinking in the face of Bruce. He smiles a bit but immediately cowers when a flashlight is brought up to his eyes. He hides his face, taking that opportunity to put his aids in, and he shields his eyes before trying to talk.

“’M fine.”

There’s a half sob and half laugh from the door and Clint squints in the light to find Steve there.

Clint talks again, “Turn down the light.”

Bruce gives him a look and then understands. He’s given a pair of sunglasses and wrapped in a blanket. They move him slowly through the halls before finally managing to get him on the Quinjet. Natasha is there, hands gripping the controls so tight that her knuckles are white with strain. He can smell her shampoo, he can see the bright, vibrant colors of Steve’s shield. The hum of the Quinjet is there, too, and it’s all almost too much.

“How long?” Clint asks and finds that he’s talking far too loud.

Steve’s there, mask off and shield down, “Two weeks. I-“ his voice breaks, “I was so worried that they had done something to you. The only Intel we had is that they were keeping you here. I’m so sorry.”

“They kept me there.” Clint says, head muddles with sensory overload. “They didn’t let me out.”

“They must have kept him in that room the whole time.” Bruce muses as he kneels in front of Clint. “What do you remember, Clint? Did they say anything to you?”

“No.” He whispers, pulling the blanket tighter about his shoulders. “It was nothing.”

“Clint,” Steve starts, still sounding wrecked, “what can I do for you?”

He wants to say that he needs quiet. That this is all too much too soon but he’s afraid now that if darkness came the light would never come back. So he forces his eyes open. He blinks, adjusting, and looks at Steve. He does his best to look over every plane of his face, taking in the furrow of his brow and the blatant concern and tries to calm himself. The room is gone and Steve is here. Everyone is here.

“Just keep talking.” Clint almost begs.

“Ok, baby.” Steve smiles, sad but relieved. “I can do that.”


End file.
